


salao

by rambunctiousragamuffin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rambunctiousragamuffin/pseuds/rambunctiousragamuffin
Summary: It's a lonely life, living in the lighthouse. Geralt has been alone for a terribly long count of years, but one day, the tide brings in something that will change his life forever.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 239





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eggspert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggspert/gifts).



> this was a giveaway to eggspert, who is a terrible enabler

Geralt pursed his lips and gently blew away the steam from a mug of coffee that had been diluted so much, he wasn’t sure that it could even be called coffee anymore. He was almost out of grounds, and he was trying to make what he had stretch for as long as he could. Geralt took a loud slurp of it before sighing and closing his hands around the mug more tightly to try and eke out more warmth. He was so _so_ tired of drinking watery coffee and eating turnips, which were the only vegetables that had the appropriate levels of spite to grow in this weather.

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would catch a mackerel big enough to supplement his diet of turnips for a couple of meals. But he hadn’t been lucky for a while now and he was tired of braving choppy waves that nearly capsized his small dinghy, salty sea spray soaking through his clothes, and fierce winds cutting through to his aching joints for no reward. Plus, fish were getting rarer and rarer, and harder and harder to catch due to the industrial fishing boats operating further off the coast. Few fish, if any, managed to escape their nets and make their way closer to the bay where Geralt would take his little dinghy, Roach, out to fish. 

Another reason why he hadn’t been fishing lately was that his net needed mending, and Roach’s rudder had been knocked out of place so she no longer sailed straight, and--

So many expenses that he couldn’t afford just kept piling up. The window on the second floor still needed reglazing after a seagull had crashed into it and broke it last year. He had done his best to cover it with cardboard and taped it to the frame, but it wasn’t airtight. Sometimes as Geralt lay in bed at night he could hear the wind whistling through the gap like a Siren’s song, driving him to madness.

His generator was on the way out, and he’d done all that he could to jerry rig it for now, but he’d need to get Zoltan to look at it for him. Zoltan would probably tell Geralt that he’d be better off replacing the damn thing, but would fix it for him anyway. Or try to, at least. 

It seemed like the government just kept cutting funding to lighthouse custodians, which was a fucking shitty idea, in Geralt’s opinion. It was a treacherous bay, and there were many local myths and legends about all the souls lost out at sea.

Geralt remembers how he, Eskel, and Lambert rushed out after seeing a flare from the S.S Sargasso shoot into the inky black sky. They weren’t prepared for a crisis of that magnitude; they didn’t have enough life saving devices for all the survivors because funding had been cut and they had to “retire” the older devices that were no longer up to code. Of the three dozen that went out on the S.S Sargasso, maybe only half a dozen came back.

It was a hard, lonely life. Maybe he should have gone with Ciri when she went to Nilfgaard for university, after all, so he could be spending his sunset years in comfort and ease instead of turning the cold, hard-packed earth to plant turnips to eat.

He drained the dregs of his coffee which had long since gone cold as he pondered why he still remained in the lighthouse, year after year, like some kind of twisted Greek torture as penance. What kept him here, other than his own self-loathing?

He was isolated and separated from the rest of a world that seemed to pass Geralt on by while he was caught in limbo. He lived the same day over and over--wake up, make coffee, drink coffee while staring out at the sea, go to the control room and look at all of the monitors to make sure no ships were in danger of crashing until lunchtime, and then after lunch he’d be right back at it until it was time for supper.

Ciri kept trying to convince him to get an internet connection so he could join the modern age, rather than live in a weird sort of pre-industrial purgatory. Sometimes he would visit town--often only when he was finally _finally_ completely out of coffee grinds, or his jumpers were more patches than yarn--and get a crash course in current events from Zoltan or Regis.

All the while, waves crashed onto the beach, carrying with them debris from around the world, and carrying other debris away on a one-way journey from home.

He shook his head to clear his maudlin thoughts and set the mug down on the table to pick up the book Ciri had brought with her last time she visited, but his head wasn’t in it. He had been trying to read this sentence three times now. He placed the book down on the table, with its pages fanning out and its spine facing up before wincing. He could almost hear Ciri’s scathing rebuke. 

He looked around for something to use as a placeholder, and his eyes fell upon a photo of Ciri with her arms around himself, and Yennefer. They were all smiling for the photographer as he took a photo of them visiting the faire on a pier in a nearby town, the colourful ferris wheel in the background, and a seagull swooping down to try to take the ice cream cone of someone wandering past.

Geralt smiled softly to himself, tracing the smiles on Ciri and Yen’s faces with his fingertip, before using the photo as a bookmark. Satisfied that Ciri would be satisfied, he pats the front cover of the book before picking up his mug again to take it to the sink to wash.

He almost dropped the mug into the sink when he looked through the cloudy, salt-crusted window and saw someone running naked along the beach. Geralt quickly looked away as he finished his task. It’s only as he tilted his head up as he was drying his hands on a teatowel that he noticed that the person wasn’t playing chasies with the waves, they were running towards the ocean, and that they were nearly hip-deep now. It was a bit of a foolish decision, Geralt though, swimming nude in this weather.

But the lack of belongings on the beach gave Geralt pause. There’s no towel to dry off after the bracing swim in the cold sea. There weren’t any clothes, either. That one was weirder. Later, if you pressed Geralt, that’s the reason he would cite for why he thought something was amiss and had to respond.

Before he realised what he’s doing, Geralt was flying down the stairs, putting a pair of fingerless gloves and his coat on. He almost tripped as he put his first boot on, not even bothering with the laces before tugging the second one on, too. In his haste he didn’t bother with a hair tie, and it almost looked like he had gone mad at long last, finally called to the sea by its sweet serenades.

Then he was out the door, letting it swing open as he raced down to the shoreline, hair whipping into his eyes and mouth as he ran down to where he last saw the mystery swimmer. Geralt looked around frantically, squinting, a hand on his brow as though that would increase his visual acuity.

“Hello,” he yelled into his hands cupped around his mouth, but he didn’t receive any response. He was about to turn and go back to the lighthouse when he spotted a mop of dark hair barely surfacing for a moment about 50m out. 

He debated with himself for a moment, his boots sinking into the sand as he shifted his weight from foot to foot as he’s torn in two directions: his first impulse was to strip down himself and try and wrest the drowning figure from the waves. The water was _very_ cold, but that could be the least of the swimmer’s problems if they had gotten caught in a rip current. If that’s the case, Geralt wouldn’t be able to swim out to get them. He also knew that each second he wasted in coming to a decision is a second that the rescue was delayed and each second was vital.

Ultimately he decided against swimming out, and sprinted over to where he kept _Roach_ moored on a small jetty.

He was panting heavily by the time he got in the boat, unused to the exertion of all this running around in his advancing age. His cheeks were flushed, and he had a small sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, his lips were dry and chapped and whenever he licked them he tasted the sea… But he didn’t remember the last time he felt so _alive_. He felt… almost nervous. Jittery. Filled with frenetic energy, like he was shaking off sluggishness from after a nap.

He was still smiling to himself, shaking out his limbs as though they don’t weigh quite right, as he unwound the rope keeping the dinghy moored, and cast off. He heard a sputtering as the engine reluctantly turned, and he made a mental note to get Zoltan to look at it too. But at this moment he was unflappable, _unstoppable_ and he felt like he could just about part the sea if he needed to.

He sailed the boat out to where he thinks he last saw the dark mop of hair, and hopes it wasn’t just a clump of seaweed, or that he’s too late… But there! He sees a pale hand breaching the surface! Quickly, he anchored Roach perpendicular to the direction of the current.

Geralt leaned over the edge of the boat, and tried to grasp the hand but he couldn’t quite reach them, they were just a little bit too far away, and their skin was slick with water so he couldn’t get any purchase beyond brushing their fingertips together. 

“Fuck!” Geralt exclaimed, slapping his hands against the side of the boat in frustration and stood up to stalk across the deck.

He had a grim frown of determination furrowed on his brow as he stripped off his clothing. It was _really_ fucking cold, and even his goosebumps had goosebumps, and for all that he jokes about freezing to death he thought that today might just be the day.

He grabbed a spare length of rope, tying one end around the railing on the side of Roach and winding the other around his waist. He secured it in a knot to the railing on the side of the dinghy and then slipped on a life vest before inflating it. He took a deep, deep breath, deeper than he’s ever breathed before--and then he breathed in just a little bit more so that his lungs were full to bursting, they were going to pop like balloons and all the air is going to go rushing out, because he couldn’t possibly hold this much air in his lungs...

Geralt grimaced and then dove into the water.

He almost exhaled in shock from the cold water, and took a moment to gain his bearings--which way is up, mostly. There was a wan, pale sun beam filtering through the water and Geralt honed in on it like his guiding star. Under the pressure of the water, he felt the pressure in his lungs even more keenly now, and the two pressures warred against each other with the flimsy barrier of his ribcage in between. 

The salt stung his eyes as he span around looking for his quarry. No, no. This can’t be _it_ , Geralt was so close, _so, so_ close, where did they _go?_

He saw a pale shoulder a few metres downstream, and he almost sighed with relief even as the pressure in his lungs is demanding to be relieved. With the current at his back, he reached the drowning figure swiftly.

Geralt hooked an arm under one of them of the other person, who wriggled--whether to get away from Geralt, or struggling against the rip, he doesn’t know, but Geralt was just trying to _help_ and all this wiggling is not making it easy. He was fighting the tide and this figure and his own body as his lungs begged for him to just take a small sip of air.

Either because they get the hint, or from exhaustion, the other figure stopped trying to get away, and Geralt hauled them both up to the surface where Geralt released all the stale, fetid air in his lungs and for a mouthful of water instead. He coughed a few times but the rush of relief he gets when he finally inhaled fresh air is euphoric--orgasmic, even.

It was hard work, carrying himself and another person on a perpendicular path through the rip, trying to keep the both of them above the surface. He wasn’t always successful, and he swallowed several more gulps of sea water for his troubles. His arms were getting tired pulling himself and the figure along the rope, and he just wanted to rest. But he couldn’t, not yet.

Eventually, through adrenaline and sheer force of will he hauled the figure up the small ladder on the side of Roach along with him, and Geralt lay them down gently before collapsing on the deck just absolutely zenned out. He was passing onto the great beyond, he can finally rest at peace--but then Roach lurches with a particularly rough wave, and wind blew over his wet chest and reality came back.

Geralt’s joints cracked as he got up and dried himself with the spare towel he kept in the cabin.

“You have _> no_ idea--” Geralt started, but was cut off when he saw that the other person was out cold.

“Fuck,” he groaned, throwing his towel over his shoulder.

What was that acronym Ciri told him about when she did her first aid course? Dr.. Dr. Something. Dr. ABCD?

He didn’t remember what the D stood for, but he remembered Ciri telling him to check for a response. So Geralt hesitantly made his way to where the very naked figure was lying on the deck, a small puddle forming around them.

Kneeling awkwardly over them, Geralt hovered his hand just over the figure’s shoulder, not touching.

“Hey, are you alright?” He asked, his voice rough from swallowing sea water.

No response.

Geralt shook the figure’s shoulder.

Still no response.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, again.

He rolled the figure onto their back, and tried to ignore their… endowments. Even shrunk from the cold it was still very… generous. 

Nobly trying to ignore it, Geralt leaned down over the figure’s mouth, but whether over the roar of the sea, or the rush of blood in his own ears, was unable to hear anything.

Trying to remember where Ciri showed him to put his hands, he placed them on the cold, clammy skin of the figure’s chest. He pushed down, tentatively, looking at the figure’s face. 

Growing worried at the purplish hue of the person’s lips, Geralt pushed down again a little bit harder. When he tried a third time, he was so high strung with anxiety, that when he heard a cough from someone that was not him, he practically jumped back in shock.

When he realised it was the person coughing up seawater, he smiled sardonically at himself, shook his head, and approached the figure once more to turn them onto their side. They automatically curled up, shivering, and despite how cold Geralt was, he threw his coat over the figure and started to sail the boat back home to the lighthouse.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, Geralt had just chalked up the figure’s moist… mien… to being wet from their little swim. But when they were still wet even after Geralt had gotten them both back to the lighthouse and toweled the figure down thoroughly, Geralt was getting worried. They had been in the water a lot longer than Geralt had been, and the water was _very_ cold, and they didn’t have as much “insulation” as Geralt did. It wasn’t until Geralt had unwittingly brushed the figure’s forehead when Geralt was trying to put the figure into some old clothes of his that Geralt realised that it wasn’t seawater, it was sweat, and that the figure had a fever.

Sighing to himself--a deep, world-weary sigh--Geralt realised that he was in for a long night. He tucked the figure into his own bed, bundled in with as many blankets as he could find. Geralt had even dragged in a little space heater that he had found in storage.

Preparing to stand vigil over the figure, Geralt unceremoniously brushed the pile of bills from his armchair onto the floor and dragged it a little closer to the bed before settling in with Ciri’s book, _The Old Man and the Sea_. When Ciri had gifted it to him, he was unamused at the jab--especially as it had been a 50th birthday present--but Ciri had just met his gaze unflinchingly. He had been the one to break first, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth. Ciri had grinned beatifically back at him, all teeth.

The figure was very unsettled at first, tossing and turning restlessly, and Geralt had to often retuck the blankets around them because the figure had dislodged them in their movements. Part of Geralt was afraid that they would have a very rude awakening falling off the small bed, and rubbed the phantom pains in his left hip from where it had happened to him last Tuesday.

Sometimes Geralt thought about reaching out and stroking the figure’s forehead to try and soothe them, but he would think better of it shortly after. They would already be disoriented enough waking up in a strange bed, and having a stranger hovering over them would be more disconcerting even still. He reached a compromise with using a cloth to wipe the sweat from the figure’s brow. 

On a whim, remembering how he would read to Ciri when she couldn’t sleep, Geralt began to read the book aloud.

_He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish..._

It took some time for Geralt to get into the swing of it, unused to reading to an audience after twenty-some years, and he felt awkward stumbling over the unknown words like _salao_. But, he hadn’t been humiliated by something as petty as mispronouncing foreign words for a long time now, and he quickly found his rhythm.

Eventually, Geralt became so engaged by the book, by the sound of his voice carrying the words to a harmony of the figure’s steady breathing in time with the waves in the distance, by the sound of paper rustling as he turned each page that he entered a sort of meditative trance. So engaged was he, in fact, that Geralt missed when the figure awakened, turning their head lazily towards him and blinking blearily. Between exhaustion and shock from earlier, and the comfort they were now in, they once more succumbed to the haze of sleep without Geralt being any the wiser.

_Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions._

By the time Geralt roused from the final pages of the book and placed it thoughtfully on his lap, dawn was almost upon the horizon. Everything was cast with a pale blue glow, extending the shadows cast upon the figure’s face and making them look almost otherworldly. Their long lashes fluttered as their eyes moved in their sleep, fanning their cheeks, and Geralt wondered what they were dreaming about.

But the peaceful moment was all too soon shattered as the feet of Geralt’s chair groaned as it was scraped along the hardwood floor. Geralt winced as it happened, and everything next seemed to occur in slow motion.

The figure shot up awake, startled by the noise, and scrambled into the corner by the head of Geralt’s bed. Geralt himself stood up slowly and put his hands up in a supplicating gesture, hunching his shoulders a bit to make himself as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Geralt said, his voice hoarse from talking all night. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. “You’re okay.”

The figure’s eyes cast about, trying to take stock of the situation, but never strayed from Geralt for too long.

Geralt took an abortive half-step forward, but when the figure brought their knees to their chest he stopped his advance and took an exaggerated step backwards instead.

“I--” The figure started, before catching themselves. “What happened? Where am I?”

Geralt was disarmed by the figure’s melodious voice and let his arms fall gracelessly to his sides. They scowled dubiously at Geralt while he blinked a couple of times.

“You were drowning?” Geralt hated how it came out as a question, and winced--which the figure mistook for a grimace and responded to by tucking themselves even further into the corner.

“I saved you,” Geralt rushed to assure them, almost hysterically, before mentally slapping himself. Maybe Ciri was right about all these years spent alone leaving his manners to rust.

“My name is Geralt. I saw you drowning, so I helped you,” he tried again. Better, but the figure still looked dubious.

“I assure you, I had everything under control,” the figure scoffed, stubbornly jutting their chin out.

Geralt grunted in response, raising an eyebrow as he recalled the figure lying limp and drenched on his deck, skin clammy like seaweed, or the way they looked so small wrapped up in the bundle of blankets in Geralt’s bed.

The figure flicked their eyes from Geralt to the bedspread, back to Geralt, before settling on a point on the wall just beyond Geralt’s shoulder.

“Thank you for your assistance,” they said loftily.

Geralt grunted again, and nodded in satisfaction, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“If you just give me my skin back, I’ll be glad to get out of your way.”

Geralt furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Your… skin?” He repeated, slowly.

“Yes, you know, my pelt,” the figure replied, impatiently, with a flamboyant hand gesture. “So where is it?” 

“Where is what?”

Ignoring him, the figure got out of Geralt’s bed and began to displace his meagre belongings while searching for something. He shook out Geralt’s sheets and pillow case, leaving the pillow on the ground. It didn’t take long before the figure had searched Geralt’s entire room. 

“Where did you put it?” The figure asked, turning to Geralt to point an accusatory finger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt said.

“You said you saved me!” The figure exclaimed, throwing their arms up.

“Yes. From drowning.”

The figure’s face made a complicated face journey, starting with brow furrowed in confusion to mouth lax in understanding before their lips began to quiver in sadness.

“You don’t have it,” they said in a small voice, consciously devoid of emotion. “I had hoped that’s what you meant when you said you’d saved me.” They looked up at Geralt, eyes brimming with tears. 

“I don’t know why I expected you to, I lost it _months_ ago. I just-- I’d _hoped_ because it had been so _long_ and I’ve missed it so much!” The figure was babbling now, in between sobs, and Geralt cautiously approached them. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but Geralt felt like he had some obligation to help them. Given what had happened last time, Geralt wasn’t expecting them to launch themselves at him, and bury their face in his lapel. He brought one hand up to tentatively pat them on the back a few times.

“There, there,” he said, punctuating each pat. He didn’t really know what else to say. Maybe they had gotten drunk and thought a swim was a good idea, and this is all the product of someone inebriated who had an overactive imagination. 

Each time Geralt had thought the figure’s sobbing had petered out, and he placed his hands on their upper arms to dislodge them from where they were plastered to his chest and getting their tears and who knows what else on his shirt, they would start crying again. Geralt would then drop his hands again.

How was this his life, he wondered? He had rescued a drunk from drowning and sat vigil by their bedside all night waiting for their fever to break and now they were drowning him in tears and snot. He was going to need _so_ much coffee.


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt made a tactical--albeit hasty--retreat from the exceedingly awkward embrace by physically extricating himself and mumbling something about coffee. Geralt was pressing down the plunger on the french press when he finally heard the uneven shuffle of footsteps indicating that the figure had found him at last.

Geralt grunted in recognition of their presence but otherwise kept his attention on his task. He felt a bit embarrassed, then, when he reached for a mug and the figure had sidled up right beside him, their shoulders touching as the figure stared out of the window. 

Surreptitiously observing them out of the corner of his eye as he poured his coffee, Geralt saw how their arms were folded in front of themselves as they gazed wistfully at the sea. 

He moved to sit down at his little dining table and dragged the sugar bowl over to him, all the while his surprise guest remained static. Ordinarily, Geralt didn’t mind the quiet, but at the moment it seemed almost overbearing. 

“Expect you’ll be on your way, soon,” Geralt said. A musical hum was his only response at first.

“The sea won’t have me, not like this,” the figure replied.

“Uhh… Okay.” 

“She won’t let me return until I’m whole again.”

“Okay,” Geralt repeated, eloquently. “Do you need me to drive you back to town?”

“No, I rather think that I’ll stay here a while.” Turning around, the figure bowed with a generous flourish. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service.”

“Geralt,” replied Geralt.

Julian hung around for the rest of the day, constantly buzzing around Geralt’s space and incessantly asking _questions._

“Who are these?” he asked about a picture of Geralt with Lambert and Eskel. 

“Friends.”

Julian pouted, obviously unsatisfied with the answer and draped himself over Geralt’s shoulder to try and wheedle a more thorough response out of him. When none was forthcoming, he sighed exaggeratedly and wandered off to find something else to pester Geralt about.

“What’s this?” Julian asked. A cursory glance across, and Geralt saw he was holding one of Ciri’s taekwondo trophies.

“Put it down,” Geralt said in lieu of an answer. 

Julian sighed, but acquiesced. Geralt shouldn’t have realised that victory was not to be so easy though as he sat down on the sonar monitor Geralt was watching.

“Get off,” Geralt grunted.

Julian crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re awfully boring,” he told Geralt.

“Sorry,” Geralt said, not at all sorry.

“Is this all you do all day?” Julian asked

“Pretty much,” Geralt replied.

Julian scoffed but got off the sonar monitor anyway. 

Geralt was entirely expecting Julian to wander off to… Wherever it was he came from by the end of the day. But, like in so many other things to do with Julian, Geralt was wrong. Julian was in the kitchen putting together a 1000-piece puzzle when Geralt stopped in before bed. 

“I’m going to bed,” Geralt said.

“Okay,” Julian replied, standing up from the table. Geralt naively hoped that _this_ would be when Julian got the hint and left. But it seemed Julian’s whole _raison d’être_ was to spite Geralt, so really, he should have known better.

“What are you doing in my bed.” It was supposed to be a question, but Geralt was so genuinely flummoxed by Julian snuggled up under the blankets that it came out as more of a statement.

“You said you were going to bed,” Julian said, barely poking his head out of his blanket cocoon to point out the obvious.

“Yes.”

“So it stands to reason that it’s bedtime.”

“Makes sense,” Geralt conceded.

“Which meant that it was time for me to go to bed,” Julian concluded.

“Yes. In _your_ bed. This is _my_ bed.” 

“Well, since I don’t have a bed, and you were generous enough to offer me yours last night, I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing again tonight.”

“I… What?”

Julian patted the slim sliver of space on the mattress beside him.

***

Somehow, Julian had managed to seamlessly integrate himself into almost all aspects of Geralt’s life after that. In the morning, Geralt found himself making enough coffee for two cups, even though Julian took his with more milk and sugar than actual coffee. When Geralt was working in the small plot of arable land in which he grew his turnips, Julian would sit on the crumbling stone retaining wall talking to a seagull perched on his shoulder. Geralt was certain it was the one that had broken the lighthouse window, too.

Often, Geralt would catch Julian staring at the sea with a pensive expression on his face. But one time, when Geralt asked if he’d like to go down to the beach, Julian smiled a tight lipped smile and said that he couldn’t possibly. Remembering the circumstances under which they first met, Geralt nodded knowingly and didn’t press the issue again.

Until one day, when he was fed up with them and decided that even a watery grave would be preferable to one more fucking _turnip_ , he decided he’d brave taking Roach out for a fishing trip.

It was a fairly pleasant day, by all accounts. The sky was clear and blue with scant few clouds, and a gentle breeze wafted over the softly-churning waves. Geralt was looking forward to tugging his hat over his face as he sat back and waited for a fish to bite.

However, because Geralt had forgotten that Julian existed to be the bane of his existence, Julian of course gallantly offered to come with him, despite his previous traumatic experiences.

“It’s important that you don’t go alone, Geralt!” Julian had insisted.

“I’ve been going alone for years,” Geralt pointed out.

“Yes, well, it’s dangerous! And what if you don’t have anyone there to help you?”

…Ah. Geralt understood now. Julian was worried for him. What Geralt _didn’t_ > understand was the “why,” as Geralt had been sailing for at least twice as long as Julian had been alive for.

In hindsight, it was one of the first times that Geralt had initiated contact, as normally it was Julian brushing back locks of Geralt’s hair that had fallen in his face, or placing a hand under Geralt’s elbow to help him up out of his chair, or wiping away excess food that had made its way into his beard and not his mouth--

It was hindsight that would explain why Julian was so shocked when Geralt reached out and placed his hand on Julian’s shoulder.

But, of course, Geralt didn’t have the gift of hindsight at this point in time, so when Julian almost jumped out of his skin and dropped his jaw in shock, Geralt snatched his hand back and stepped away.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmured in the direction of his feet. “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay,” he said, uncharacteristically softly.

“Yes, but what if you’re _not_?” Julian asked him with unnecessary aplomb. 

Geralt didn’t have a response for that, which Julian took as a response of his own. He nodded decisively.

“Which is why I’m coming with you.”

***

Geralt had tried to give Julian as many chances to change his mind as possible, but he knew the other man well enough by now to know that once he had reached a decision, naught could change his mind. He had tried to be patient and tried not to be too frustrated when Julian was hesitant to step off the jetty and onto Roach’s deck. He tried to remember how brave Julian was being.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Geralt said to Julian while offering his hand. “I’ve got you.”

Geralt was, perhaps just a little pettily, hoping that Julian would be whining about being seasick--just so that he’d have an excuse to take Julian back to shore and he could still have some time to himself after Julian living nearly on top of him the past few weeks. But Julian continued to defy Geralt’s expectations by being a fairly experienced seaman. 

Neither of them talked until long after Geralt cut Roach’s engine, Geralt focusing on sailing the dinghy, and Julian focusing not on the sea but on Geralt’s hair whipping in the wind, the way that the silver-gray strands reflected the sun’s rays, the broad shoulders bearing the straps of Geralt’s white singlet.

Geralt pulled out an esky from the cabin and procured forth two beers, cracking open a can and passing it to Julian before opening his own. Julian tilted his head in thanks as Geralt raised his can in cheers, and they sat in companionable silence as they finished their drinks.

One beer became two, and Geralt groaned as he stood up to grab his--newly mended--fishing nets.

“Have you ever fished before?” Geralt asked.

“Of course!” Julian scoffed.

“Hmm.”

As if to prove his point, Julian began to strip his clothes off down to his underwear, sneaking glances over at Geralt every so often to see that he was still engrossed in untangling his nets.

Before he could second-guess himself, he dived into the ocean.

“Shit! Are you okay?” Geralt exclaimed, rushing over from the port side to the starboard side of the boat where Julian had dived from. He was on the verge of panic before Julian resurfaced, a fish in his mouth.

“What the _fuck_?” Geralt said softly, but with a lot of feeling.

Julian tossed the fish up at Geralt, who struggled to catch it because it was still _alive_ and it was wet and slippery and _wiggling_.

“I told you I’d been fishing before,” Julian told him, smiling beatifically up at Geralt.

“Yeah,” Geralt said, smiling back down at Julian in the water. The fish took Geralt’s momentary distraction to leap from his grasp and onto the deck. “Shit.”

By the time Geralt had finished the fish off and put it in the esky, he heard another splash that he took to mean that Julian had surfaced again, this time with a whole damn octopus.

“Uh.”

“Oh. Not a fan?” Julian asked, disappointment marring his features. “I saw some crabs if you would prefer?”

“No, no, octopus is fine!” Geralt hastened to say. “You just have a… unique fishing style.”

“Yes, well, it is easier when I have my pelt on.”

“Uh…” Geralt said again, as Julian climbs up the ladder clad only in his soaking wet underwear to hand Geralt the octopus. The wet fabric was doing nothing to obfuscate the impressive endowments that Geralt remembered seeing on that first day, so he valiantly tore his eyes to the octopus that Julian is offering him.

“Thanks. You, uh… You have a unique fishing style.” Geralt winced. That’s not what he meant to say. “You… did well.”

Julian slapped Geralt on the shoulder. Hard. It _hurt._ But he didn’t notice, already walking away from Geralt towards the stern of the ship. 

He started chattering away, as he is wont to do, but for some reason Geralt felt voyeuristic, like he was prying--and not because Julian was standing there in his wet underwear. Well, not _just_ because. It probably had more to do with the soft susurrus of Julian’s voice as he spoke to the sea, not intended for Geralt to catch on the wind.

So, he busied himself with “preparing” the octopus for transport back to the lighthouse in the esky. This had been his most productive fishing trip in months, and he hadn’t even done the fishing himself! That hurt more than he was willing to admit. 

He tried casting the net anyway, and all he caught for his trouble was a clump of seaweed that had drifted into the net, carried on the current.

Julian peered curiously into the net over Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt could feel the heat radiating off of Julian’s bare skin, along with being able to smell the salt from the dried seawater.

“I can show you how to fish properly, if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” Geralt replied.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Julian needled. “The water’s lovely.”

Geralt snorted, shaking his head, and missing the too-wide smile and devious glint in Julian’s eyes before he pushed Geralt overboard.

“Hey!” Geralt yelled, spluttering as he breached the surface and combed the wet tresses of his hair back from his face.

“If you can’t bring the mountain to Geralt, make him drink!” Julian shouted back.

“That doesn’t even make any _sense_!”

However, Julian’s next response was an ululating cry as he dive bombed in beside Geralt.

“Hey!” Geralt yelled again, splashing Julian as soon as he surfaced.

Somehow, a splash war became a wrestling competition, as they both grappled to submerge the other. Julian was a wily one, always slipping through Geralt’s grasp just as he caught him, swimming through Geralt’s legs to poke him on the shoulder and then disappear as soon as Geralt had turned around. 

They were both panting and smiling and Geralt’s lips were chapped and salty, and Julian’s eyelashes fluttered with little droplets of water glinting in the sun as he followed the movement of Geralt’s tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. 

Julian’s smile faded when he saw Geralt’s typical sombre countenance return, but that didn’t last long as Geralt gently lifted Julian’s chin with a finger. He looked at Geralt, searching, but Geralt’s face didn’t betray his intentions. Geralt moved his hand to brush a piece of seaweed off of Julian’s face with his thumb before cradling his cheek and leaning in for a kiss.

It was chaste, just the quick brushing of lips together before parting.

Geralt recoiled quickly, already panicking.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I… _shit_.”

But Julian tangled a hand in Geralt’s wet hair and brought their faces back together, licking the salt off of Geralt’s lips and kissing him more thoroughly. Their legs tangled together as they treaded water, at most only one arm helping them float at any one time as the other skittered across necks, shoulders, waists…

Then Julian dunked Geralt’s head underwater. When Geralt came back up, growling, Julian laughed. Instead of retribution, though, Geralt rested his forehead against Julian’s.

***

That night, when Julian came to bed, Geralt shared it willingly.


	4. Chapter 4

The days passed by in a comfortable domesticity, with Julian humming songs that Geralt didn’t recognise. But they complemented the sounds of birds calling and the waves crashing against the shore, and it all faded into his new normal. It was all fine until Geralt received a letter from Ciri saying that she was coming to visit. Geralt didn’t know why, but he felt uncomfortable about the idea. Normally he would have been beyond glad, excited even, to see his daughter. But for once in a very long time, the lighthouse had begun to feel like home to him, and he was afraid that the bubble of peace that he had found would be popped by Ciri’s visit.

He was worried that these two aspects of his life would conflict, and he would have to choose--Ciri, or Julian. What was worse was he didn’t know which he would choose, if it came to it. Yes, he had memories with Ciri, but that’s all they were. Ciri had her own life, now, she had been sailing on her own for years. As for Julian… Well, Geralt had survived without him. He would be able to do so again. But Julian had shown him that there was a difference between surviving and _living_.

Geralt just let the few intrepid worms that lived in his turnip patch do their own thing, for the most part. It wasn’t until Julian had held one in his hand like something precious, gently stroking the saddle and whispering sweet nothings like “what a good wiggly boy you are” that Geralt really noticed them.

That pesky seagull that had broken the lighthouse window had even started hanging around, and gave Julian little gifts of shinies that it had found on the beach. It was mostly things like bottle caps, but there was a watch whose band was mostly intact that Julian wore with pride.

He could survive again without Julian, but Geralt wasn’t sure if he really _wanted to_. 

So, in True Geralt Fashion (™), he did his best to fuck it all up.

“When are you going home?” He asked Julian the day before Ciri was due to visit.

Julian looked up at Geralt from the little model of a boat in a bottle he was putting together, first with surprise, and then something more akin to caution.

“I had rather hoped to prevail upon your hospitality until I found my skin, again.”

“What if you don’t ever find it?” Geralt asked, tactful as always.

“Then I suppose I’ll at least have had the pleasure of your company,” Julian replied earnestly

Geralt snorted derisively in lieu of a response.

At this, Julian stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked towards Geralt, with a stern expression on his face, waggling an accusatory finger.

“How _dare_ you condescend to tell me what I do and don’t want?” Julian asked, poking Geralt in the chest with said finger.

“How could you possibly want _this_?” Geralt snapped, gesturing around and then to himself. “What is there even for you, here?”

“There’s you!”

Geralt scoffed and shook his head.

“You know I don’t mind the cold nights as long as you’re there beside me. You _know_ I stay here because I _want_ to, whether or not I could go home.”

“Yes, but you can’t, so it’s a moot point!”

Julian recoiled as if physically struck, and Geralt deflated, reaching out to grab Julian’s hand.

“Geralt, what is this really about?” Julian asked, twining their fingers together. “If you really want me gone, I’ll leave, but it seems to me like you’re just trying to pick a fight.”

Geralt ran his free hand over his face. That was _exactly_ what he was trying to do, so he could avoid talking about his feelings like an adult. Then, if Julian had left, he wouldn’t have to worry about him and Ciri not getting along. He could rest--maybe not _easily_ \--in the knowledge that he was right, and that everyone leaves in the end; Eskel, Lambert, Yen, Ciri, Julian… Even if he had been the one to drive them off in the first place. 

“I--Shit,” Geralt said, and rested his head on Julian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You’re right. It’s just…”

Julian waited patiently, playing with the loose strands of hair at the nape of Geralt’s neck that had come out of his ponytail. 

“My daughter’s coming to visit,” Geralt finally admitted.

“And you don’t want me to meet her?” Julian asked, not stopping playing with Geralt’s hair, but also not bothering to disguise the hurt in his voice.

“I wasn’t sure if _you_ wanted to meet _her_. I was worried that it might scare you off.”

Geralt felt Julian withdraw, and he looked up in time to see Julian’s befuddled expression.

“So you thought that the best course of action would be to try and scare me off yourself?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“You’re a fool,” Julian told Geralt.

“I know,” Geralt replied, sufficiently chagrined.

***

In the end, Geralt had nothing to worry about. The two of them got along better than Geralt could have hoped. Almost too well, actually. They gossiped amongst themselves like fishmongers’ wives, and Geralt could tell from their none-too-subtle glances that he was their subject. They would look over at him, and then break down in giggles, and Geralt would pretend to be put upon and roll his eyes to distract from the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ciri had convinced Geralt to drive them all into town for dinner at the pub, where just “by chance” Zoltan and Regis had decided to go out that night, even though it was a Tuesday. The five of them were drinking and making merry, with Ciri and Regis embroiled in discussing the recent prevalence in mothers trying to use celandine oil in place of vaccinating their children. Zoltan and Julian were having an arm wrestling competition, with Zoltan being a good sport and letting Julian win a couple of rounds so he didn’t get _too_ drunk too quickly. 

Geralt was content to just sit back with his arm laid over the back of the booth and watch, occasionally peppering in comments here and there to Ciri conversation with Regis, or when adjudication was required between the other two.

Of course, predictably, that’s why everything went to shit when Letho walked in, because Geralt can’t have nice things.

“Geralt! That’s it!” Julian told him in a rushed whisper.

“That’s what?”

“That’s _it_! That’s my pelt!”

Geralt looked over to where Julian was pointing, and sure enough, Letho did have a pelt.

“Come on, you have to help me!” Julian begged him.

“Uh…” Geralt replied.

But instead of an answer, Julian was already up and out of his seat and making his way to Letho.

“Ah, _shit_.” Geralt said, and everyone turned to look at where Julian was sauntering up to Letho, without an ounce of hesitation.

Julian tapped him guilelessly on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” Julian said. “You have something of mine.”

Letho didn’t even deign to look over at Julian, he just shucked his coat, hung it over the back of his seat, and sat down.

Julian looked over at Geralt for help, but Geralt stood stock still, uncomprehending. Julian nodded sadly, with a small, disappointed smile appearing on his face. Then Julian nodded again, firmer this time, his face morphing into grim resolution.

He tried to yank the coat away from the back of Letho’s chair, but Letho reflexively reached out to snatch it back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Letho asked, rising menacingly from his seat.

“Simply taking back what’s mine,” Julian said, tugging the coat again, and holding it close to his chest.

As if in slow motion, Geralt saw Letho pull his hand back, ready to punch Julian--and then suddenly, somehow, Geralt was _there_ and he pushed Julian away, and Letho’s fist connected with Geralt’s face instead of Julian’s.

Everyone else erupted out of their seats after that, with Regis and Zoltan running over to pull Geralt away from Letho, and Ciri rushing over to Julian.

Over the rushing of blood in his ears, Geralt heard Julian say “I’m fine, thank you, I have to go.”

“Wait,” Geralt slurred, but he was manhandled back to his seat before he could chase after Julian. Which was probably for the better, as the floor was spinning and everyone had somehow cloned themselves.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Ciri asked, kneeling beside him, applying a frozen bag of peas to Geralt’s rapidly bruising eye socket.

“I don’t know,” Geralt grunted. “Julian said it was his pelt, whatever the fuck that means.”

Regis stared at him strangely, and Zoltan laughed uproariously, which caused Geralt to wince from the pain the sound caused.

“Hey, get back here,” Ciri said, chasing him with the peas.

“I’m fine,” Geralt insisted, even trying to swat away Ciri’s hand. Only, he’d chosen the fake Ciri, and his hand didn’t connect with anything but air.

“Sure you are, big guy. Hey Regis, could you come look at him? I think he’s got a concussion.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted again.

Undeterred, Regis replaced Ciri by Geralt’s side and pulled a penlight out of his breast pocket.

“Look at me, please, Geralt,” he said.

Geralt did, but only to glare. It seems that he got the right Regis this time, though.

“Pupils are a bit dilated,” Regis stated. “Tell me, Geralt, how many fingers am I holding up?” 

Regis raised a hand with three fingers up. Geralt raised his hand with one finger up. He sighed in exasperation, but put his penlight away, seemingly content. 

“He’ll be fine,” Regis declared.

“Told you so,” Geralt mumbled.

“It’s lucky you’ve got such a hard head,” Zoltan guffawed.

***  
Geralt had expected Julian to be waiting for him by the truck so they could all go back to the lighthouse together, but after waiting for an hour in the dark, Ciri suggested that he must have started walking back.

He half expected to find Julian somewhere along the road, but the high beams only revealed gravel and sward. 

It was unlikely that Julian would have made it back to the lighthouse on foot before he and Ciri arrived, but it was possible, Geralt supposed. He did have an hour’s head start. Or maybe he was still in town, waiting for Geralt--

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ciri said, sensing his thoughts. “The pub will call Regis if they see him, and Regis will look after Julian for you.”

“But--”

“No buts, it’ll be fine.”

But it was not fine. Regis never got a call from the pub, and Julian didn’t appear at the lighthouse the next day. Ciri even drove up and down the road all day trying to scout him out, in case he had tripped and fell in a ditch somewhere, or something.

One day became two, became three, and suddenly the week Ciri was visiting for was over, and other than that first night, the two of them hadn’t done anything together. Geralt was too busy wandering listlessly about the lighthouse, and gazing forlornly across the beach, eyes constantly scanning for his missing… companion.

He didn’t _understand_. Julian had said that he had wanted to meet Ciri, but maybe it had been too much, after all. Geralt knew this would happen. It always does.

Now Ciri’s leaving again, too.

She said that Regis and Zoltan had offered to come stay with Geralt, under the guise of “helping him convalesce,” but Geralt had batted away their offers.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Ciri very obviously didn’t believe him, but she didn’t push it.

“I’ll let you know when I’m visiting next,” she had said instead.

Geralt grunted, too preoccupied with his current pain to give her the goodbye she was waiting for.

As she was about to leave, her hand lingered on the doorknob. She turned around and smiled at Geralt.

“Hey, it’ll be fine.”

Geralt didn’t _cry_. That’d be overstating it. But he did walk up to his daughter and pull her into a hug the likes of which he hadn’t given since she was a little girl.

“Thanks,” he said, his words muffled by her hair.

“It’ll be fine,” Ciri repeated, adamant.

But it wasn’t, not at first, anyway. It was very hard readjusting to life without Julian. Everywhere that Geralt looked, he only saw Julian’s absence. His bed that had felt too small with Julian in it now felt too big just for him. He found himself making enough coffee still for two, and rather than letting the second cup go to waste, he just microwaved it and drank it with his lunch. 

He didn’t see any worms in his turnip bed, and the seagull was even more belligerent than usual.

It wasn’t until one day, when he was washing his coffee mug and looking out of the window that he saw Julian walking--naked, again--along the beach towards the lighthouse, and carrying something over his shoulder. Geralt’s heart lurched queerly in his chest, and he found it quite difficult to keep his breathing steady. 

He blinked hard, just to make sure it wasn’t an illusion, but no; he could see the trail of footprints that Julian was leaving behind him in the sand.

He smiled, unbidden, at all the fond memories from before that. Even all the times he was annoyed by all of Julian’s questions--what’s the point of having a fish if you’re not going to _eat_ it, he had asked about the stuffed marlin--were viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia. 

A traitorous part of his head reminded him about how hard these last few weeks had been without Julian, and implored him not to make the same mistake twice.

Just like that first day on the beach, he had a choice to make. Just like that first day on the beach, he chose Julian, again. 

As they lay in bed together, sticky and sated, Geralt chose Julian again and again, and again.


End file.
